


Call Me, I Still Love You

by dante08



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Character Study, Childhood Memories, Confessions, Crushes, Falling In Love, Flirting, Internal Conflict, Longing, M/M, Might be OOC, Minecraft, Mythology References, Not Beta Read, POV Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Pining, Sapnap said Dream likes reading so Dream LOVES reading in this, Slow Burn, Time Skips, george's dog is called lilo, greek myths because those are angst incarnate, let us pretend corona is gone by the end, minecraft end poem, not accurate details, not me projecting on these characters, was inspired by heat waves the masterpiece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28379655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dante08/pseuds/dante08
Summary: One time, when his cheeks were still round and rosy with the glow of youth, Dream scrapped his knees against the pavement of a sidewalk and cried until his lungs burned.“Oh, honey,” his mother had whispered soothingly, rubbing his back gently as she held him in her arms. “It's okay. Falling hurts, doesn’t it?”He had nodded then, never quite looking away from the tiny droplets of blood that littered on the knob of his knees, and tried to smile (because smiling makes everything better, or at least, that’s what his mom said).But now, he stares at George the same way he had once stared at his bruised skin— in fear, in pain, in wonder.Dream smiles either way, because his mom was right.Falling hurts.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Darryl Noveschosch & Sapnap, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 143





	Call Me, I Still Love You

**Author's Note:**

> hello there! thank you for taking the time to read this story. just wanted to mention a couple of things:  
> \- this story focuses heavily on the life of Dream, and everything that i put here is fiction and based sorely on my interpretation of the persona we see online. i do not, in any way, want to disrespect dream, or any of the other characters, and their lives. please remember that this is a work of FICTION  
> \- again, every character in this story is based on online personas, not the real people.  
> \- title comes from the song by the same name, "Call Me, I Still Love You" by Two Feet. (such a beautiful melody).
> 
> that's it. enjoy!

If someone were to ask Dream when it all began, he would shrug his shoulders and try to think of a time when it wasn't like this.

The truth is, it had always been there, whether he knew it or not.

He doesn’t quite remember their first meeting, nor the first thing they said to each other. But he remembers the way the sound of George’s laughter made the corners of his lips pull into a smile. He remembers the way his stomach hurt from gasping for air after laughing endlessly, remembers the way tears threatened to fall from his eyes. He remembers grinning the whole time they played, remembers the way neither of them hesitated to start joking with one another even though they were still strangers (though they felt anything but).

He remembers the strange feeling after, of wanting George to stay longer.

Since then, he’s been lost.

And so, he smiles (something bitter and longing) because there is nothing he can do but wait for someone to find him.

* * *

His wrists ached by the time he clicked on the Twitch button, the rapid chat of his viewers ending so suddenly it left him feeling hollow for a few seconds. The green character on his screen did not move.

“Dream?”

He snapped his head back to look at his other monitor, where George’s furrowed face graced the bottom of his screen. Shaking his head, he moved the character until it was following George’s.

“Sorry, Patches was scratching me,” the lie left his lips before he could think twice about it.

_(Why did I lie?)_

From the corner of his eye, he saw Patches giving him a betrayed look, and not for the first time, he thinks of how scary she can be when she acts almost like a human.

“Aw,” George mutters quietly, a faint smile on his lips. Dream feels the back of his neck burning. He blames it on the window he left open for the entire stream. “Such a good girl.”

“Shut up,” he laughs, and George grins directly at the camera. His cheeks get dimples when he smiles that way, dimples that Dream has always wanted to poke. He looks away, and rubs a hand over his eyes.

By the time George says goodbye with muffled yawns, the sky outside was a mess of scattered blues that his mom loves to call ‘sheep clouds.’ He thinks of the last time he called her, more than a week ago, and berates himself for not keeping in touch more often. 

Dream stands from his chair, pulling his arms until his back pops, and sighs in satisfaction at the looser feeling. His whole room is dark except for the bright light from his computer, and when he ventures out into the hallway, he spends nearly a solid minute trying to find the light switch, curses falling quietly out of his mouth.

He almost jumps when he feels something brush against his leg, but a purring quickly makes him lose the tension of his shoulders. Turning on the light, he sees Patches staring at him. He huffs out a laugh.

After he puts her plate of food on the floor, he absentmindedly listens to the random show he put on his television while waiting for his food to heat up.

A sudden ping makes him look away from the microwave. He grabs his phone, and feels his lips curl at the contact name. _Snapmap_.

_Look_

With that message came an attached fanart of what is obviously Dream, wearing a green hoodie and his smiling mask, holding hands with George, with his clout goggles over his head. Trailing behind them was a cart full of the loot they stole from Sapnap at their last game.

 _Lol u suck,_ he responds with a grin, saving the picture on his phone. Opening the list of friends on Discord, he clicks on George’s name.

_Bonnie & Clyde who?_

George doesn’t respond right away, probably already asleep, and Dream forgets about that message until the next morning.

At some point in the night, it had started to rain. When he woke up, he didn’t even realize it was already morning because of the darkness outside. He looked at his phone, and saw a notification, a message from George. 

_I’ll mine ‘till I die_

He stared at the message. Then stared some more.

Then he started to laugh, breathlessly and somewhat helpless.

Eventually, when his phone screen went black, he noticed the reflection of his flushed face and lopsided smile, and turned on his side until he was facing the window that occasionally made his room light up from lightning.

It was still raining then, calmly and softly, but Dream felt as though his entire world started to burn.

* * *

“Can you ask George if he loves Dream?” Bad reads, chuckling slightly as his character begins to circle George’s. A quiet huff is heard from said person, which Bad ignores. “Thank you so much for the dono! And now, George—”

“No,” George denies quickly before Bad could finish his question, and Dream tries not to mind it like all the times before. He chuckles a little to keep the pretense, to pretend like it doesn't sting in the slightest, though it is more for his own sake than anyone else’s.

“George,” Bad says again, slowly, as if asking a child, “do you love Dream?”

There isn’t a response right away, and when he turns to his other monitor where Twitch is open, he can see George’s uncomfortable and slightly flushed look. He blurts out, “George, just tell me you love me.”

“Oh my God.” George mutters with a roll of his eyes, shaking his head when the chat starts to go wild. Their bed is destroyed by another team, but Dream can’t seem to focus on the game, too caught up on the same old ‘teasing’ they always seem to come back to.

“I love you, George.” Dream swallowed nervously, trying to keep his voice light and playful but for some reason it doesn’t feel that way anymore.

_(Why does it taste different now?)_

Everyone else must hear it too because there is a quiet beat, a slight confusion for some, a realization for others.

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Sapnap mutters, and the strange moment ends just as suddenly. Sapnap and Bad start to laugh, and Dream joins a few seconds too late. George simply smiles. “Now, put the poor man out of his misery and tell him you love him, too.”

If Sapnap were here, Dream would slap him over the head and hug him all at once.

He strains his ears to hear whatever George will say, but before he can, the Yellow team ruins it when someone tries to kill him, right after they pushed Bad off the edge. George starts to scream. “No! Dream! Sapnap! What are you doing?”

“Sap—” Dream cackles, seeing his friend falling from the sudden TNT thrown at him. He keeps playing the game, trying not to feel disappointed about the lack of response, then promptly shakes his head at his own nonsense. 

He tries not to think too much about what happened before, about how his words seemed to be threaded with too much honesty for his liking. He tries to not think of how often his eyes would steal glances at George’s facecam now and then, or how his mind refuses to let go of what George would have said if only he had more time.

* * *

Dream still remembers the first time he beat Minecraft, his eyes wide with wonder as they scanned the End poem, almost without blinking in fear of missing out on anything. 

> _and the universe said I love you because you are love._

He had put his hand over his mouth, his heart beating loudly as tears slowly began to fall from his eyes. His younger brother started to laugh at him, but his older sister stared at the words too, mesmerized by the aching truth hidden within them. 

> _And the game was over and the player woke up from the dream. And the player began a new dream. And the player dreamed again, dreamed better. And the player was the universe._

_Dream_ , he said silently. He will dream again, dream a new world, dream a new life, dream something kind and beautiful, dream something dark and still beautiful. He will dream and dream and keep dreaming because life was beautiful.

> _And the player was love._

And he was loved.

Behind the hand over his mouth was a smile. 

That day, he walked outside onto the front porch of his house, and ran barefoot on the grass. He raised his arms and looked up at the sky, breathing in deeply. He tried to feel the blood rushing through his veins, the air inside his lungs, the blooming feeling of hope inside his heart. 

After that day, he did not play Minecraft again for a while.

Instead, he took walks under the bright sunlight, read science fiction under the summer shade, and listened to the frequent rain that would bring with it his favorite smell. He sneaked inside the kitchen to grab more chocolate, played with his siblings until they all felt tired to the bones, and wrote stories under the safety of the night, stories he would never dare to show anyone. 

For a while, he lived the life he was told to live.

Then, he dreamed again.

* * *

The very first manhunt George and he ever did holds a special place in his memory.

He still remembers how he connected to Discord, and felt a sudden spark of nerves setting in when he saw George already logged on. His hands were sweating a little, and he fumbled unnecessarily with his microphone before joining the call.

George’s voice held a tinge of excitement. “Dream!”

“George!” He tries making his voice sound as loud as it always sounds. He hopes he didn’t fail.

They begin recording, and the manhunt starts with wheezing cackles and shrill screams, familiar things that soothed him until all he felt was the laughter in his chest and the energy in his veins.

“Run, Dream, run,” George sang, and Dream couldn’t even reply from the sheer concentration he was giving to the game.

He felt his pulse quicken when he saw George’s tag nearby, and could not help the wide grin that spread across his face as they battled each other to the death.

“Dream!” George screams, his microphone cutting while Dream wheezes loudly, his stomach cramping painfully when George dies again. “No, oh my God!”

That only makes him laugh more, though it quickly turns into groans of despair when he falls.

“No!” He cries while George screams in joy, and he puts his forehead against his hand, shaking his head in shame. “I’m so stupid.”

“Yes! Oh my God.” He can hear the sheer glee in George’s voice, and despite having lost, he cannot find it in himself to be upset. “I just destroyed you.”

Dream huffs and George laughs, and they end the video with a good feeling in their hearts. He knew this was the start of something big, something that would change their lives, and he was glad to have George by his side.

There was another video they filmed that he never uploaded, one that was too long and lacking any entertaining plays.

But in the end, Dream killed George in the End, and tried to kill the Ender Dragon but was held back by the Enderman. When he finally does kill the Dragon, George bemoans his loss, and Dream screams, “let’s go!”

They said their simple goodbyes, and Dream stopped the recording, leaning back on his chair with a sigh. He sees George, clad with a single leather helmet, running towards him.

He starts to laugh and simply jumps on the portal, triggering the end screen and making George groan at his failed attempt of sneaking at him.

> _I see the player you mean._
> 
> _Dream?_

Dream feels the nostalgia rushing back all at once, hitting him with the same force as waves on the beach. His lips curl up as he reads the poem. Faintly, he hears George typing something through his headphones.

> _Does it know that we love it? That the universe is kind?_

It was almost as if he was twelve years old again, still thrumming with the novelty of beating Minecraft, suddenly fascinated by the words appearing on his screen. His hands shake like they did back then, and he has to smile in spite of himself.

“Dream?” George says, his voice softer than he has ever heard it. For the first time, he feels how runny his nose has become, how blurry his vision is. The strange hollowness in his chest comes back once more, making feel alone. “Wait, are you crying?”

“No,” he immediately fires back, then has to sniffle. Usually, he doesn’t shy away from crying, and rather embraces the fact that he is an emotional person. But something about George makes him shy, makes him want to lie and pretend he’s fine. Then again, another part of him doesn’t want to hide behind a mask. “Maybe.”

“Is it the poem?” His voice is warm with understanding, and Dream slumps down, shoulders falling as he loses a tension he didn’t even know he had gained. When Dream hums in response, George laughs a little, and Dream imagines him scratching the back of his head, looking to the side with reddened cheeks. “It made me cry the first time, too.”

“Really?” His eyes widen in surprise, and he looks to his left, almost as if expecting to see someone there. Instead, he only sees their voice chat, and George’s blinking, green circle.

“Yeah,” George sighs quietly, but loud enough to be heard. “It really is true, isn’t it? Like—”

“—it’s speaking just for you.” Dream finishes, and George hums. They are both quiet for a moment, and he keeps reading the words slowly finishing on his screen.

> _and the universe said you are not alone_

He is not alone, he has never been alone. He will dream again, dream new dreams, and even then, he will not be alone. Not now that he finally has found the one—

“Want to—”

“Can we—”

They both laugh, and Dream is the first to ask again. “Can we keep playing?”

“Until they ban us.” George promises, and their laughter is the only thing he can hear, contagious and loud. For a second, he closes his eyes and pretends he can feel the warmth of his friend by his side, that they were closer than nearly two thousand kilometers. 

Then, Dream opens his eyes and smiles (something bittersweet and aching).

“Let’s go.” 

* * *

When Dream was younger, maybe eleven or twelve, he had to write a story for English class.

The prompt was simple, only asking for a short story of any genre that includes three or more literary devices. The class had groaned when the teacher revealed the assignment, and Dream himself had held back a scoff.

 _So boring_ , Dream thought with a wince on his face as the teacher passed out lined paper. The rest of the day went by in a blur, nothing worthy of excitement happening in any of his other classes, and a few hours later he was sprawled on his bed, his backpack thrown somewhere on the floor. 

It was after dinner that he finally pulled out his homework, albeit reluctantly and while throwing longing glances at his computer.

Determined to finish everything as fast as he could to finally play, he used a calculator for math, googled the answers for history, and then groaned when he came upon his English homework.

Without thinking much about it, he set a ballpoint pen upon the loose stack of paper and tried to write. 

But it did not happen quickly. 

The words seemed to evade him at first, all hint of coherent thought leaving him as soon as he tried to move the pen. He thought back to the last movies he watched, tried to rack his brain for any entertaining memories roaming in his mind, but everything was quiet.

He pushed his chair back and stretched, rolling his eyes at the ceiling as his frustration grew more and more. When he leaned forward again, his gaze landed on his computer, where his friends were probably playing together on a server. 

_Maybe some pvp,_ he mused longingly, and then turned to stare at the blank paper some more, offended at its mere existence. His fingers ached to hold a mouse instead of a pen, to swing a sword instead of ink strokes.

It did not happen quickly, but when it did, it was all over.

At some point, words came to life through the black ink on the pages until he was no longer a sixth grader reluctantly doing his homework. All of the sudden, he turned into a hunter roaming the forest with a sword in hand, sneaking above the branches of birch trees and running as fast as he could once his prey caught scent of him.

He wrote metaphors for the sinking feeling in the stomachs of the prey, used hyperboles to highlight the ruthlessness of the hunter, and relied on vivid imagery to paint the precise picture of what the final clash looked like. 

That night, he wrote and wrote and completely forgot about the video games inside his computer. He could think of nothing else but how, all of the sudden, he was now living inside worlds that existed _because_ he wrote them to existence. He came upon a hidden wonderland where he was the creator and destroyer, and it was as if he could do anything. 

And just like that, he fell.

When he received back his paper, he grinned knowingly at the big A circled on the top, and giddily skipped home to show his mom.

“I’m so proud of you, sweetie.” She muttered against his hair, her arms around the middle of his body. He burrowed closer to her heat, and leaned his forehead against the base of her neck. “My little writer.”

Dream remembers having smiled at that nickname, one that faded pretty soon after, although his newfound love for writing refused to fade along.

Instead, he asked for more notebooks for his birthday and Christmas, spent his extra lunch money on pens, and set about to write the greatest story ever written. 

To this day, he has yet to find the words; but sometimes under the soft lull of the night, with his computer brightness turned down ever so slightly, the voices of his friends happy and comforting, he thinks there’s nothing left to be found.

* * *

The first time George asked to see his face, Dream completely ignored him. It was understandable— they had just met recently, after all. George didn’t even sound mad or disappointed in the slightest.

The second time, he couldn’t really ignore him since they were streaming live in front of thousands of people, all of them hanging on to their every word and action. But he dodged the subject and spoke ambiguously until something else distracted them, and George did not ask again. 

The third time, he regretted not agreeing when he saw a strange shine in George’s eyes (tears held back, he realized too late), heard the quiet shakiness of his voice, and felt the way something changed between them that day.

Dream had swallowed down all of his nerves, swallowed down his pride, and called George again after the stream. Tentatively, he reached out to make sure they were okay, and quickly found out that they were not. But they talked— he explained he was not ready, George said he understood, although Dream could still hear a lingering anger and sadness in him. He apologized for his harsh words, George apologized for pressuring him, and they moved on.

Since then, George only ever asks lightly, teasingly and insincerely, always under the pressure of donors and the chat when they’re on Twitch, never when they are alone and everything becomes real.

And sometimes, late at night when the numbers on his bedside table become nothing more than a blur, he grabs his phone, aims the camera, and smiles as a picture is taken. Sometimes he attaches the picture under a new message for George. Sometimes he writes a witty comment, trying to appear nonchalant but knowing that George will see right through it. Sometimes his thumb hovers over the send button.

And every night, he shakes himself awake from the delirious fever that threatens to consume him, and deletes the messages, deletes the pictures. He tries not to blame himself for not being braver, for not being stronger, for not giving George a sign that he _wants_ to bare his very being to him. 

_(But if I give you more, I won’t be able to stop until I’m nothing but bones and ashes, with you holding the match and my life in your hands)._

* * *

Dream was sixteen the first time he thought about kissing a boy.

Being in virtual school made it hard to make friends, but he wasn’t missing out on friendship; he had online friends, after all.

But it was a little different to actually see a friend face to face, something he found out when he had to meet a classmate for a group project.

After emailing each other, both agreeing that it was easier to work together at a coffee shop, they met the next weekend. A few minutes in, the two had a new phone number saved under a new contact.

It wasn’t as close of a friendship as the one he had with Sapnap or Bad, but it was nice. They still texted each other frequently about anything and everything that would come to their minds. Some weekends, they met at the library, at coffee shops, and talked and laughed for what seemed like something close to forever.

And some days, Dream found himself shaking his head a couple of times when he realized he was staring for too long, his eyes sometimes straying to look at the other’s bitten lips and the curve of his smile. By the time he got home, all he felt was confused and a little scared.

When he lays down one night, Dream begins to imagine how different it must be to kiss a boy.

Would it be harsh, painful, tasting of slight bitterness? Or would it be rushed, panicked, desperate to never let go?

Sleep evades him that night, and he lays awake for a long while, thinking too much and too hard about things that just keep confusing him.

His mind goes back to his first kiss, and then to his second, both with girls who had soft lips and long hair and timid giggles.

Would it be the same to kiss a boy?

Dream finds an answer by the time he is eighteen.

Boys are rougher, he concludes, but no less frantic. 

Their lips might not be as soft as a girl’s, but they still press against his skin in a way that makes him clench his jaw to not mutter a sound. Their bodies might not be as gentle to the touch, but he’s always loved a challenge.

The memory of those kisses burns in his mind sometimes, becoming all he can think of when he catches sight of cherry lips, dimpled cheeks, and an accent he has come to think of as comfort and joy.

 _I’m fucked_ , he thinks unashamedly, and resigns himself to the fact that there is nothing he can do but brace for the fall.

* * *

After being friends for over five years, there are many things about George that Dream has come to know.

He learned pretty quickly that George prefers water over any other kind of drink, that he does not get easily cold but does get easily hot, and that he often talks in his sleep. He learned that George once got Hufflepuff in the Pottermore test but since then considers himself a Ravenclaw, that he hates rollercoasters as much as Dream himself, and that sometimes he feels too lazy to shave his face even though having slight stubble bothers him.

Dream only knows these things because George has mentioned them in passing, muttering them under his breath, skipping over them as if they were insignificant.

Who knows how many things he would have missed had he not been concentrating on George’s voice, on the words he took the time to say?

It makes him think of one particular day that lives very clearly in his mind.

They had just finished playing during a long stream, and after saying goodbye to everyone, he went to get food for Patches and himself.

A quiet noise from his phone made him look away from the refrigerator.

_From Gogy_

The Snapchat notification opens to a picture of Lilo, laying down on George’s pillow.

Grinning, he snaps a picture of Patches, who is currently staring at him lazily from a chair on the dining table, and sends it.

Just as he begins to plate his food, a Discord notification makes his phone ring. He quickly joins the voice chat room with George.

“’ello.” He mumbles, putting the phone on speaker as he swallows the bite of his food.

“Dream.” George’s voice quickly brings a smile onto his face. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“Lilo just learned how to roll over.”

“Video or it didn’t happen.”

“Bet.”

There’s nothing in particular that makes that night different from any other night he has talked to George. Neither of them said anything out of the ordinary, nor was the conversation particularly heavy or emotional.

But it felt as though George were here, Dream realized, thinking of how he unintentionally turned his head a couple of times to look at George only to see he was alone (he was always alone), with his voice coming through his speakers being his only company.

It felt domestic, common, almost as if it were an ordinary day spent between two people close in everything but distance.

It felt real.

They talked for hours, morning for George and night for Dream, about anything and everything that came to mind. They laughed over some meme George saw on Twitter, then laughed some more over another they found on their main Discord.

Then George talked about his sister, about how she is going to college, and Dream mentioned how his own sister is barely starting high school. They talked about places they always wanted to visit, about food they always wanted to try, and the top things on their bucket list.

They talked about what their lives could have become if some tiny detail had changed.

Dream says he would have majored in Computer Science, and George agrees, then changes his mind and says that he would have also liked to try chemical engineering.

 _To blow things up,_ George had said almost sheepishly, though the sound of his words made the smile on his face very apparent.

It makes them laugh for a bit, and after they calm down, Dream hesitates ever so slightly before admitting that he would have liked to study Creative Writing as well.

It goes to show how much George has come to know Dream, relying only on the highs and lows of Dream’s voice to tell what he is feeling, that he knows not to push him to talk more about that. Some other time, maybe, but something about their current light conversation does not make it the right place. Instead, all George says is, “good thing you can always double major.”

Dream grinned at that, and they moved on.

Even when he laid on bed, he refuses to finish the call and say goodbye because he’s scared of letting this end (when it had just begun).

At some point, Dream fell asleep to the soft lull of George’s voice and the gentle breathing of his friend. In the morning, he saw how he was the only one still connected to the call, George having left after the seventh hour.

 _Sorry I left u hanging,_ he texts George, but only receives an answer sometime later.

_I fell asleep too_

_Wasn’t it morning for u??_

_Yeah_

_Dude_

_Shut up_

There is nothing in particular that makes that night different except for the fact that he realized how effortless it was to be with George, so painless and simple.

And how it often left him with the strange desire to write.

* * *

Dream admits it to himself during a Twitch stream.

He joined an hour after he noticed George was live, connecting to the voice chat and joining the server. The facecam loaded after a while, and when he saw George, he cursed himself in his mind.

_(I’m fucked)._

He quietly gulps as he stares at his monitor with more focus than when he plays.

George was wearing a blue hoodie with a small smile on his face, occasionally gazing directly at the camera when reading the donations, and all Dream wanted to do was hug him tightly in that moment, to never let go.

His stomach drops.

“Dream?” George asked, his brows furrowing as he turned his head to the side, as if he could see Dream in that moment.

“George!” He exclaimed loudly, making the other laugh and everyone soon forgot about his reaction.

They played and laughed and reminisced over childhood stories. At some point, Sapnap and Bad came, and at some point they left.

Even after George ended the stream, they kept talking, both moving to the Discord on their phones. Dream kept sending him pictures of his dinner, one of the rare times he actually cooks, and George responds with a picture of the rainy streets, then another of Lilo cuddled by his side.

It was while listening to the loud laughter that came from thousands of kilometers away that he finally is able to give a name to the strange ache he feels.

He fell in love with George.

He doesn’t quite know when it happened, perhaps during the recording of a video or during one of their never-ending conversations.

Or perhaps he was always falling without knowing it.

_(And you don’t know it either, but you held me in a bridge and asked me to let go, and I gladly did)._

It makes him wonder whether George ever felt the same way, if he ever thought about something more than friendship, if he ever wondered how three quiet words would taste when they stumbled out of his mouth, ringing honest and true.

_(Did I miss it?)_

Then, he shakes his head.

You cannot miss something you never had.

* * *

With a love for writing came a love for reading, and Dream quickly amassed a collection of books from all different genres.

“I’m not really a Shakespeare kind of guy,” he chuckled slightly in response to the donation popping up on his screen. He continued running through the Nether. “I prefer, like, fantasy and mythology and all that.”

The craving to thumb through the pages of a novel stuck with him for the next couple of hours, and after swiftly paying his goodbyes to a shorter than expected stream, the first thing he did was grab the nearest book from his messy bookshelf, and begin to read.

Night came and went, and his stomach was growling with hunger by the time he finished the novel. His bookshelf enticed him over again, and as he walked closer to grab another book, he resigned himself to the fact that he probably wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. 

Another book with a cracked spine caught his eye.

Dante’s _Paradiso_. 

A ghost of a smile grows on his lips when he thinks back to the last time he flipped through these pages, years ago when he had too much time in his hands and frantically read every book on mythology he could find. 

That faint heartbreak he felt when he first read about them comes back, and he remembers the way the story goes- of how Dante saw Beatrice twice, and twice she captured his heart. 

He thinks of the way Dante saw Beatrice for the last time, unaware and in fleeting, a simple greeting exchanged where he gave up whatever was left of his heart to her (for he had already given the rest the first time, in their youths). He thinks of how Dante must have felt, to have lost her without knowing it, and how he used his heartbreak to write a continuation of a love story that ended before it had even begun.

Dream refuses to think of the way Dante missed her when she was so close.

_(Did I miss you?)_

Although his eyes burn, Dream continues reading whatever he can find, skipping to his favorite chapters and reading and re-reading his favorite quotes until they become engraved in his mind once more.

When he finally does try to sleep, the sun is already blazing in the sky. He lays on his side and looks at the light filtering through the blinds of the window. His mind is still stuck on the words he just lived, on the stories that haunt him more than they should.

Dream closes his eyes, and sees Achilles burning down Troy for Patroclus, hears Orpheus singing in the face of the king of the Underworld for Eurydice, feels Medea betraying everyone for the sake of Jason. 

He falls asleep knowing that none of them had a happy ending.

* * *

As soon as the stream finished, his phone rang.

“Dude, you’ve got it bad, ” is the first thing that comes out of Sapnap’s mouth, and the first thing he slowly registers after turning away from the computer he has been in front of for the past few hours.

“What?”

“You should tell him,”

“Tell who what?”

“Oh my God.” Dream stops when he hears a sigh from the other end of the line, a sigh not meant to be heard but picked up by the microphone regardless.

“Sap—”

“George.” Sapnap says, and Dream’s tired mind is suddenly doused with icy water. “You need to tell George that you like him.”

He didn’t even bother asking Sapnap how he knew because, at this point, Sapnap probably realized it before Dream himself. He probably enjoyed watching him squirm around like a teenager in love for the first time, until he took notice of the longing laughter and the pained jokes.

Even though Sapnap cannot see him, he still shakes his head, running a hand over the prickly jaw he always forgets to shave. “Sap, you know I can’t.”

“Dream,” another sigh, more exasperated than the last. “I can see how this is eating you alive, and I don’t like it.”

This time, he is the one who sighs in resignation.

“Sap, but what if—”

He fell quiet when he realized he doesn’t have the words to complete the rest of the sentence. Too many things could happen. Too many possibilities he is not brave enough to risk.

“Dream- seriously,” Sapnap’s voice was quiet in the way it sometimes got when he was about to say something Dream wouldn’t like. The last time he heard this voice was when Sapnap told him he wouldn’t be coming to Florida after all, after both had meticulously planned the trip for months only for a pandemic to come barging uninvited. “You’re not like this. Why are you scared?”

Why was he scared?

Why did his hands shake when he thought of confessing, of laying everything out in the open?

Why was George any different than the other crushes he has had before?

Why was he so afraid?

“I really like him, Sap.” He swallowed nervously. He looked at the huddled figure of Patches on top of his pillow in the bed, at the open and plain curtains of his window, at the messy tragedies scattered over his room. His voice was quiet when he spoke. “I really, really like him.”

“I know, I can tell,” Sapnap says, his words dry in a way that always makes Dream chuckle. “All the more reason.”

“But I’m gonna fuck it up.” Dream tightens his hold on the phone until it hurts. He grips his blankets with his other hand, a tight fist that allows him to feel his own pulse. “I can’t risk it.”

“Even if George doesn’t like you,” he inhaled sharply at that, and then instantly berated himself on his mind for how stupid he was being, “he would never throw away your friendship over something like this.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, c’mon.” Sapnap’s voice was starting to sound annoyed by now, and Dream would have smiled triumphantly any other time at being able to get a rise out of his friend. “Give him some credit. He might be an idiot, but he’s not an asshole.”

“God, I hope you’re right.” He mutters, and by the time they hang up, Dream feels an energy traveling through his entire body, almost as if someone had ignited the fuse of a firework and he was anxiously waiting for an explosion to happen.

It makes him want to hide under the covers and see the show all at once. 

He cleans his room, cuts the overgrown grass in his backyard, and takes a walk for the first time in a while.

Hours pass, and his body feels sore and tired, but his mind is still annoyingly awake.

 _Fuck you,_ he texts to Sapnap, the cause of his current misery, and gapes at the response he gets.

_Save that for George_

When he takes too long to respond, trying to make his mind work again, Sapnap sends him another text.

_Too soon?_

Dream sends a whole paragraph of middle fingers.

At some point in the night, a notification appears on top of his phone, and he quickly opens Twitch in his laptop. Dream curls next to Patches as they both watch George appear on Quackity’s stream. 

His conversation with Sapnap keeps running through his mind, and he resigns himself to the fact that there is no going back now.

_Maybe George will understand—_

_Maybe George will pretend it never happened—_

_Maybe George feels the same way—_

The sound of George’s laughter makes the corner of his lips curl up instinctively, and he wishes not for the first time that they did not live oceans away. 

_(Maybe it was never meant to be)._

After all, Dream was always too hopeful for his own good.

* * *

The way it ended started out normal enough.

George and Sapnap were both streaming while Dream only kept them company, giving them more setbacks rather than support as they tried to beat each other in speedrunning.

A donation (that Dream would forever curse and thank) swiped the match and lit up the beginning.

“Dream, just confess that you’re in love with George.” 

“I am in love with George.” He admitted after a beat, voice coming out softer than he expected, “I’ve been in love with him for some time now.”

_(I’m yours and you don’t even know it)._

There was nothing left to do but brace for whatever came next. 

“What?” George tried to laugh it out, but he sounded lost, and Dream just wanted to disconnect from the call and hide under his blankets. He should have thought this more through.

“Simp!” Sapnap yelled when the silence kept going longer than any of them liked, and they chuckled slightly, more for the sake of the stream than for the joke. 

“What can I say?” Dream shrugs, trying to speak lightly and with a hint of amusement, as though it was all a big joke. “George is just so lovable.”

Sapnap started to gag, trying to keep the awkwardness away, and Dream truly could not love his friend more. “I’m gonna throw up.”

George still hadn’t said anything, and when Dream finally gained the courage to look at his computer again, he saw George looking to the side, biting his lips slightly.

They kept streaming for a while longer, the chat never quite living down the perceived ‘fanservice’ they just witnessed. Dream winced when he noticed how George ignored the rest of the donations that were asking about what just happened. 

Time crawled until they finally said their goodbyes to the stream, a tension settling between them that made him feel as though he were drowning.

“I’m gonna- you know- go guys,” Sapnap said, his tone cautious and the slightest bit apologetic. 

“Bye Sap.” Dream muttered, and George whispered the same words as well until they were both alone in the call. He cleared his throat, “George?”

“Did you mean that?” His voice was quiet. Upset.

He bites his bottom lip, hard enough that his eyes tear up. “Yes.”

“Dream.” He hears the way George’s voice starts to shake, so miniscule that he would not have noticed had he not been paying attention. He sounds torn apart.

Dream feels his heart wanting to beat right out of his chest.

“It’s the truth.” The words stumble out of his mouth, tripping over one another in a desperate effort to explain and defend. “I don’t know how or when but—”

A shaky breath can be heard through his headphones.

“—it just happened.” 

The answer must be there, somewhere among the hours and days that have passed since they first met. Maybe it was in the first laugh they shared, or maybe in the playful teasing, or maybe in the first time he laid eyes on George and saw the way his smile lit up his entire face.

_(Or maybe I was gone all along)._

He pushes more.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” he thinks back to the long stares, the helpless smiles, the longing breaths. “I still don’t really know, but—”

Pictures of blushing cheekbones and curled pink lips invade every corner of his mind. Beautiful. God, it makes him wish to—

“I wish you were here,” he swallows nervously, aware of how shaky his voice had become, “because I really want to kiss you.”

For a while, there is nothing but a deafening stillness between them. His eyes are unmoving from the monitor in front of him, where his Minecraft was paused.

“Say something.” If begging is what it takes, then begging is what he will do. “Please.”

“I just—” George falters, and Dream imagines how he would be shaking his head in confusion, running a hand over his forehead in exasperation, over his lips in a desire to find the words that keep escaping him. “I don’t- I can’t do this.”

He remembers the words of his mother, soft and tender. _Falling hurts._

 _Not trying hurts even more,_ he reasons, and a part of him knows that if this is how it ends, well, he has to at least make it worth it. 

“George, I am in love with you.”

There was no silence when he uttered those words again, sure and true. The wind still sang shrill songs outside his window, Patches continued to lick her paws serenely, the fan of his ceiling never once stopped. The world continued as if nothing had happened, but Dream felt stuck in time, stuck in this one moment.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continues, swallowing the knot in his throat. He faintly hears laughter from the kids of his neighbors, hears the rumbling of cars passing by, hears the thumps of his heart. _How can the world go on when he’s like this—_ “I just- I needed to say it.”

When it becomes clear that George will not ( _cannot_ , Dream admits reluctantly) say anything, Dream hovers his mouse over the end button.

“I’ll _—_ ” Dream hesitates, “I’ll leave you alone.”

Then he mutters a small goodbye, and disconnects from Discord.

Numbly, he closes all of his tabs, closes the Minecraft that was still running, and turns off his computer.

A few minutes pass, but he just stays there.

His fingers feel cold, his stomach hurts, and his ears are buzzing. But he feels light now, almost giddy because he has nothing left to hide. No matter what happens, at least he will never have to wonder “what if.”

When he goes to sit on the lone patio chair in his backyard, he leans back and closes his eyes, letting the Florida heat and blistering sun embrace his skin. He thinks of how it must be in Brighton, with its damp streets and icy air. He thinks of whether George was cold right now, seeking to have someone by his side or wishing to be someplace else. He wonders whether George would like Florida.

But none of that matters now.

For the first time in a long while, he feels alone.

* * *

Dream does not know what time it is when he wakes up feeling as though someone pushed him off a mountain without a parachute.

Gasping slightly, he tries to hold on to something, to anything, only to find himself still on his bed. His fists grip onto the sheets with enough force that it quickly hurts his forearms. 

He heaves himself up and throws on a pair of shorts and a shirt that were somewhere on the floor. His phone and wallet are on his hand when he stumbles towards his garage, snatching his keys along the way.

The occasional car lights burn his eyes, and a suffocating feeling overcomes him when he doesn’t see anyone on the streets, the silence mocking him.

Dream fiddles with the radio, taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, and rolls all of the windows down.

When he is finally in the middle of the expressway, a sigh leaves his lips.

He steps on the pedal.

The number on his dashboard turns into three digits.

The lights are flashing now, blinding from the corner of his eyes as he tries to focus on the song playing on the radio, on the road stretching long ahead, on anything but—

He steps on the pedal more.

The wheel feels sticky under his hands, and Dream wishes he could go to the beach right now, soak in the sea and do nothing but enjoy the serenity of the water and the grainy feeling of sand against his skin.

Faintly, he thinks of what his mother would say if she saw him right now.

 _Honey_ , she would shake her head, trying to sound disappointed and mad but failing. _Wake up now._

At some point, the clock on his car blurs enough that he finally turns around and heads back home.

At some point, he gets back into his bed and stares at the ceiling.

At some point, he falls asleep.

With a gasp, he opens his eyes and sees the dark crevices and corners of what he knows is his bedroom.

He brings a hand to his chest, feeling his heart about to beat right out, and starts to cry.

* * *

Three days later, George sends him a message.

_Can we talk?_

When he reads the message, there are a million things that run through his mind, all at once. 

He thinks of the short story that remains unfinished somewhere deep inside a folder on his computer, yet another adventure with no clear ending, and then thinks of the humid air outside from raining too hard in the middle of summer. 

He thinks of the End poem and of the tears that always threatened to fall, thinks of his sister and her embraces, of his mom and her smiles, of his dad and the gaze in his eyes.

He thinks of his brother, bound by everything but blood, and thinks of the way that no matter what happens, at least he will have his back. 

And then he thinks of George, of the mutual flirting that would shyly toe the line between real and not real, of the sincere laughter that would always consume their beings, of the way he wants George to look back and smile at him too.

_(Please let me love you)._

When their call connects, there is a tension between them that Dream hates, something that makes him wish he had never said anything in the first place.

“Dream, I-I can’t,” George stutters, and although Dream always expected it, he still closes his eyes at the flare of pain he feels. “I can’t give you what you want.”

He breathes sharply, and struggles to get the words out of his mouth. “What do you think I want?”

“A relationship.”

“No,” Dream shook his head although George could not see him. “I just want you.”

Silence.

“But you want more than I can give you.”

Dream doesn’t say anything because what else can he say? George is right, and Dream can say nothing else because nothing will change the fact that he’s been lost since day one, and is still lost to this day.

He mourns the end of a story that had no beginning.

“I’m sorry,” George whispers.

_(But at least it existed)._

“No, don’t be,” he hates the way his voice shakes, the way he has to plant both feet on the floor to ground himself. “I’m sorry for all of this.”

They both fall quiet again, and Dream feels the same spike of fear once more, the same fear that almost stopped him from laying out the truth. Only this time, he is scared of losing George.

 _This is how Dante must have felt_ , he thinks, the ache growing within him, _when he saw Beatrice again._

_(I don’t want to lose you either)._

“George,” swallowing down the knot on his throat, though it does nothing to chase away the sudden emotion he feels, “you’re my best friend, before anything else.”

“Don’t let Sapnap hear you,” George quickly says, a second nature to use humor in every situation. But the reality sets in, and his voice goes quiet, “you’re my best friend, too.”

“That’s why I don’t want to—” he shakes his head, “I can’t lose you.”

“Dream, I can’t give you what you want.”

His hands are reaching out in front of him, his mouth moving silently, but nothing works as George goes further and further away from his reach. 

_(Please stay, just a bit longer)._

“Nothing has to change.” Dream says quickly and as honestly as he can (though it’s just lies pouring from his lips), clenching his fists tightly on his thighs out of pure desperation. “We can be the same as before.”

A long beat.

“Okay,” George breathes out, and Dream imagines how he must look right now- eyes closed, shoulders slumped, body weightless. His words are hesitant, and although Dream knows that they are driven by good intentions, it still feels like he can’t even breathe. “But will that be enough?”

 _No, it’s not enough,_ he wants to say, he wants to beg, he wants to cry out to whatever God is listening. _It will never be enough._

“More than enough.” Dream lies, feeling his eyes burning, and tries to smile. “Bedwars?”

George laughs softly, and Dream can hear the click of his mouse over the speakers of his phone. “Bedwars.”

They play and play some more, Sapnap and Bad eventually joining them at some point though neither are streaming. Everyone laughs and screams and screeches in injustice, and everything is okay.

And he keeps trying to smile.

* * *

Dream thinks back to the quiet disappointment in his dad’s eyes when he announced to his family that he would not be going to college.

He always had a special bond with his dad, something that his sister blamed on the fact that he was the first boy of the family. Dream hadn’t really cared about the why, and simply stuck by his dad’s side as he was taught how to use his hands in manual labor.

His dad would smile gently, patiently, and never seemed annoyed at having to explain everything over and over until Dream finally understood what cables to connect, what oil to use, and how to reassemble everything he tore apart.

Green eyes would stare into his own with a love that he came to know as comforting and safe and warm.

And then Dream began to forget how that tenderness felt when he told everyone of his plan to start a YouTube channel.

It was one of the worst things in the world, one of the worst pains he has ever felt. His heart pang and he wanted to scream every time his dad looked away, never meeting his gaze (and the few times he did, he would look at Dream as though he failed to live up to his expectations).

Years have passed since then, and their relationship has gotten much better. Dream still hesitates slightly when he is alone with his dad, has grown closer to his mom because of that, but his dad hugs him every time they see each other, and never fails to whisper in his ear, “I’m so proud of you.”

But if there is one thing he learned from the whole situation with his dad it is that it truly fucking hurts when a person you love looks into your eyes with only regret.

He has never seen George’s eyes up close, nor has George seen his at all. But his voice speaks a million stories filled to the brim with an apologetic guilt, an awkward confusion as if he is trying to remember how it was to be friends with Dream. 

It hurts more than he wants to admit.

No matter how many times he fell asleep each night, hoping that everything would just turn up to be a nightmare, the hesitant tone in George’s voice and the careful threading of Sapnap proved that it was all real.

And it was awkward at first, especially when they would be alone without any of their friends as a light barrier between them. 

Dream stopped his usual baiting, and George skillfully ignored the donations that would venture on dangerous territory. More than once, they trended on Twitter, with fans speculating about what could have happened to make them so timid around each other.

He would always wince at the comments that mostly got it right.

Yet, every time they talked, more and more of that strange cloud that lingered above them faded.

It took time, far longer than he liked and far longer than he could handle, but they got to a place similar to the one they used to stand at before.

And Dream hates it.

He thinks of a time months ago, when his mom hugged him tightly and called him “generous” and “kind” after he gave her his first YouTube paycheck. Back then, he felt proud and pleased at now being able to provide for his family, but now he can’t help but think she was wrong all along.

He is selfish and greedy because he will always want more from George, more than he’ll ever have.

Still, he laughs and smiles because that is all he can do.

And it is painful, he admits, but he knows having George as a friend is better than not having him at all.

_(Seeing you smile and laugh and turn at the sound of my voice is the best heart break I have ever felt)._

For now, it has to be enough. 

* * *

And for a while, it was enough.

Dream would sigh in relief every time George started to break down the barriers that had grown between them, and he would always make sure to meet him wherever George was ready to take them.

He laughed loudly at the teasing remarks, fired back with witty banter, and succeeded once in a while to even make George blush.

It was more than he could have ever hoped for.

But he still could not help the way his eyes would fleet back and forth between his monitors, or the way his nails would leave creases on his hands from tightened fists when he tried to stop the pain he felt every time—

“Dream!” George laughed, his face hidden from where he was looking down at his phone. “Don’t send me that!”

The chat was suddenly spammed by an onslaught of questions, but Dream could only cackle into the microphone as he and George continued pretending to be sending and receiving lewd pictures.

Patches gave the camera an unimpressed stare as Dream snapped another picture of her, sending it to George. He made sure his socked feet were in the shot, just so that he wasn’t technically lying when he told the chat that they were feet-pics. 

He started wheezing when he noticed they were trending on Twitter.

“Okay,” Sapnap drawled, “we’re still here, lovebirds. Save that for the bedroom.”

“Sapnap!” George yelled, his face flushed while Dream simply chuckled.

When the stream ended, Sapnap sent him a message.

_Are you guys good?_

_Yeah_ , he typed back, and received a couple of thumbs up in response.

And they were good, or at least, George thought they were. He lacked the hesitation he held for the past couple of weeks, and acted as though nothing had happened. Dream still berated himself for not being able to move on, for refusing to let go of the ledge he had found when he dived headfirst into this cliff. 

But letting go would mean falling, falling out of love, and although it hurts, he is not quite ready to say goodbye.

_(I’m yours, but it’s okay if you’re not mine)._

While they were streaming speedruns, a donation read out loud tilted his whole world once again.

“Gogy,” George began reading, chuckling at the name while he waited for the iron to cook, “when will you go to Florida?”

In an uncharacteristic move, Dream felt his hands slacken, and his character stopped running. Quickly shaking himself off, he started playing again, though he hung to George’s every word.

“Um—” he started, sounding nervous. Dream could relate. Sweat started to gather on the base of his hands and his left leg started to bounce.

“Yeah,” Sapnap’s voice brought him back to reality, and not for the first time, he thought of how lucky he was to have someone watching his back, “when are _we_ gonna go to Florida, huh George?”

George smiled, only one corner of his mouth curving up, something that Dream instantly recognized as nervousness. It made him look away, trying to focus instead on the Piglin. George shrugged slightly, “I don’t know. Dream?”

He swallowed down the nervous knot in his throat. “Whenever you guys want. I’ll be here waiting.”

There was a pause from George, his eyes flickering back and forth from the phone on his hands to the computer screen. Hesitation was drawn all over his body.

“Well—”

“We can figure it out later.” Sapnap dismissed the subject, making George look affronted at being interrupted, and Dream was still snickering quietly as they continued the stream.

Hours later, the three of them were still on the voice channel, Twitch closed but calendar apps and airplane websites opened on their desktops.

“The restrictions last until February.” George muses, his quiet sigh faint against Dream’s headphones. “Only essential travelling until then.”

“This is essential.” Dream mutters, rubbing his forehead but smiling slightly when it makes George chuckle. “And after February?”

“I have school.” Sapnap groans, and the three go quiet except for the occasional clicking of keyboard and mouses. Dream flinches back when Sapnap suddenly slams his hand against the desk. “Dude, Spring break.”

He perks up.

“Spring break?” George hums slightly, more clicking noises being heard before he says, “Spring break sounds good.”

A grin splits across his face, and his heart thumps rapidly against his chest. 

“Spring break it is.”

He looks at the calendar still open, at the many little squares separating today from March 22.

_(Time is all I have now)._

“I can’t wait for March,” Dream said, leaning his cheek on the arm on top of his desk.

“Me neither.” George’s voice was soft. There was something about the way he said it, something that made Dream pause and stare at the monitor as if it had all the answers he needed. He opened his mouth to say something (what, he did not know), but Sapnap spoke up.

“Guys, if I’m gonna be third-wheeling this whole trip, then I’ll just—”

“Sapnap!”

* * *

“I want you,” he whispered, leaning down until his forehead was pressed against George’s.

George laughed softly, beautiful and honest- everything that makes Dream fall more and more in love with him. His words were whispered, and Dream could feel his breath against his lips. “You have me.”

“No,” Dream shook his head, mouth pulled into a sad, knowing smile. “I don’t.”

The warmth spread more through his body, and George gently touched his cheek, pulling him closer until—

Carefully, he opened his eyes and rubbed a hand across his cheeks, were he felt dried tear stains. His hand fell until it graced his lips, the ghost of a touch still reeling in his mind, and he shook his head.

_(Why can’t I let you go?)_

Even though he knows he is alone, he still looks at the other side of his bed. It stings more than it should when he doesn’t see a familiar face next to him.

Hours passed, and he was still in bed, having only gotten up to feed Patches and go to the restroom.

Burrowing deeper into the blankets, he sighed into his pillow. His body felt tired, his eyes felt dry, and he just didn’t know what to do.

Maybe it was a few minutes later, or maybe it was hours, but a sharp sound made him wince.

He looked at his phone, and saw a text notification.

 _Jackbox with Karl n George. U in?_ Sapnap wrote.

_Nah, pass_

There was no response for a couple of second. Then, three dots appeared at the bottom of his screen.

_U okay?_

_Yeah_

A pause.

_U sure?_

_Yeah. I’ll join with the audience_

He did not join with the audience.

Instead, he put down his phone and tried to go back to sleep.

But closing his eyes makes him think of smiles against his skin, eyes staring fondly at his, and the faint touch of lips against lips- things he will never get to have outside his dreams.

Sometimes, he thinks he gets close, or as close as he possibly can when George is so far out of reach.

Sometimes, Dream says something, something dumb and easily forgettable, but it makes George laugh until he throws his head back and brings his hands to his eyes. He always keeps huffing out small giggles after, his face red and dimples on his cheeks.

_(I want to make you smile for the rest of my life)._

The smile on his face hurts now, and even though his vision is blurry with the beginning of tears, he does not wish for the feeling in his chest to ever stop.

They say time heals all wounds, but time has only been mocking Dream, gingerly plucking the days out of his hands, one by one as Spring break looms closer and closer.

And Dream _knows_ that moving on is the only way to get the pain to stop, but moving on would mean letting go of these feelings, of the ache in his smiles and the little sparks of hope.

And he is not ready to say goodbye.

* * *

A ping of his phone lights up his room in a brief second of light. 

He squints at the screen. 

_George_.

Dream’s fingers immediately click on Discord on their own accord, because at this point, it has become second nature for his body to respond to George. 

He thinks of the other night, of his hand clutching the bedsheets, of the warmth surrounding him, of wishing and hoping and dreaming that one day—

“Hi,” he murmurs, looking at the wall. The phone was cold against his cheek. Not for the first time, he craves for a snowy winter.

A hum comes from the other end of the line. “Hi.”

He could not really help the small smile that grew on his face at the familiar accent that had become so comforting by now. A quick glance at the window told him it was late, and the ache in his eyes narrowed it down to long after midnight.

“Couldn’t wait to hear my voice again?” He almost could not recognize the words that poured out his mouth.

“Funny,” George said, barely above a whisper though Dream could hear his smile. They were both quiet for a moment. “I just woke up.”

The bed creaked as he turned onto his back, now looking at the ceiling. He licked his lips. “Did you have a dream?”

“No,” George sounds almost wistful. Dream only knows what wistful sounds like because he hears it every other Friday, whenever his mom calls him to check up on her son so far away from home. “Well, if I did, I don’t remember.”

Dream makes a noise of agreement, understanding and hating the feeling of not being able to remember something that seems so incredibly close, a mere breath away.

Almost within reach.

“Do you know what I would do if I was with you right now?” Dream asks, holding his breath as he waits for George to say something.

“What?”

“I would give you a hug, the biggest hug.” A smile grows on his face when he hears George chuckling on the line. 

“A hug, huh?” George keeps the amusement on his voice, even when he missteps past the invisible line they drew on teasing. “What about a kiss?”

Dream breathes in sharply, something that George can clearly hear because he starts to stutter out apologies that he never wants to hear.

It makes something inside him break, a dam of sorts, and everything starts to pour out without a filter.

“I would do more than just kiss you.”

A small noise makes the hairs on his arm stand on end, and he feels breathless, alive. What does he need oxygen for when he has the soft gasps of George right by his ear?

_(Let me pretend we’re in love and everything is okay)._

“I wish you were here,” he repeats the same words he said the other time because they are still true, they will always be true, “so I could hold you and call you mine and make you understand that—”

“That what?” George breathes out, and Dream doesn’t know if it’s because of anticipation of fear.

He throws an arm over his eyes, chest heaving as though he had been running all this time, though in a way he had- chasing after someone that never knew was being chased.

“That I’m still in love with you,” he laughs while he says it, something sad and deprecating. He shakes his head, and as much as he wants to berate himself for having fallen in the first place, he could never regret these feelings. He stutters the rest of his words. “That I’ll still be in love with you tomorrow, and the next day, and until God knows how long.”

“Dream, I don’t—”

“You don’t have to love me that way,” Dream near whispers, “I just had to say it one last time before I try to let you- let this go.”

Both ends of the line went quiet. 

_(This is my goodbye, love—_

“No,” George says, his voice louder than it has been all night. “No, wait- I just- I don’t know what I feel—”

George trails off, and Dream stays quiet.

Then, the words register in his mind.

“Wait- feel?” He repeats breathlessly, and Dream can’t even hear his voice from how quiet he has become. He feels dizzy, feels his mouth go dry, feels as though he heard wrong. “George, what are you saying?”

“Dream.” His voice got quiet all of the sudden, making the loud ringing in Dream’s ears fade in an instant. “You fucked me up. I can’t stop thinking how I- I, how I might—”

George faltered, hesitating, and Dream had to sit up in his bed because everything suddenly too heavy, as if he were about to drown.

“George,” he spoke again when it became clear that George did not know what to say. But he did, because just with a few words George made Dream feel alive, “we have time. Don’t worry about it. We have time.”

_(I’ll wait for you, however long it takes)._

George makes a noise that does make Dream laugh this time, and when they both go quiet once more, it is comfortable.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you anything more.”

“It’s okay,” Dream breathes out, “I don’t want anything more right now.”

“What do you want then?”

_(You, you, you. Forever just you)._

“Right now?” He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. “I just want to talk to you.”

“Talk,” George repeated softly with amusement, and Dream could clearly hear the smile on his voice. “I can do talking.”

Dream pressed his phone more to his ear as if it would make George’s voice closer.

And they talked.

And in that moment, it was everything he could have asked for.

“George?”

“Mhm?”

“I meant it.”

“What part?”

“Everything.” A pause. “Especially—”

“Especially?”

“The part where I said I love you.”

They fall quiet once more.

“Dream?”

“Mhm?”

“I can’t wait for March.”

Dream grins, relief washing all over his body like icy lemonade in the middle of summer.

“I can’t wait either.”

They talk for a long while, with Dream mentioning all the places in Orlando he wants to show them, and George whining about the flight that awaits him.

It gets to a point where they fall quiet, the silence comfortable and warm. Their soft breathing is the only thing breaking the quiet.

“Are you sleepy?”

He glances at his phone, and his eyes widen slightly when he notices how long their call has been. The time says it is nearly five in the morning.

A yawn escapes his lips before he can even notice it, and George must hear it because he chuckles.

“Go to sleep.” His voice is gentle, and Dream closes his eyes, imagining that George is in front of him instead of kilometers away. “We can talk later.”

He swallows. “You swear?”

George laughs slightly, fondly, “I swear. Now, go to sleep.”

“Okay, okay.” Dream says, yawning once more. “Good night, Georgie.”

“Good night, Dream.” He can hear the smile on George’s face, and neither end the call first. Then George whispers a small “bye,” and hangs up.

Dream lays on his bed for a while longer, staring at the ceiling with a dopey grin. Patches jumps on the bed, and he beams at her, laughing softly in joy, wonder. She purrs in reply.

He reaches for the charger on the bedside table, and just as he is about to put his phone down, he hesitates.

Then, he opens Snapchat.

Clicking on the button in the bottom of his screen to turn his camera, he looks at the top of his phone, making sure only the bottom of his jaw is visible, and smiles.

He clicks send.

* * *

_Sapnap is coming in two days_ , he typed at George, trying and failing to contain the smile that was covering his entire face. _I'll wait for you at the terminal._

 _Sounds good, wish me luck,_ George responded quickly, sending along a selfie where he held a peace sign with a wince in his face.

Dream wouldn’t like being in a 10-hour flight either.

 _Break a leg,_ Dream typed in response.

A keyboard smash was the last thing George sent before he had to put his phone in airplane mode, something that Dream found out when the rest of his messages wouldn’t send.

His body was thrumming with energy, and although George wouldn’t get here for a long while, he might as well get everything ready.

Although he hated cleaning, he swept his floors and washed the dusty sheets in the guest bedrooms. He went to the grocery store, and bought whatever things he could find for easy meals, hoping that maybe George or Sapnap knew how to cook (though he knew they would end up eating takeout every day). 

When there was nothing else to do, he pulled out his phone again and texted Sapnap, only to be blown off.

_Packing, ttyl_

He rolled his eyes and groaned out loud, making Patches look at him and walk slowly closer, as if to check if there was something wrong with him.

“Patches,” he grinned at her, rubbing her head gently when she laid by his feet. “They’re finally coming here.”

She purred contentedly, and they spent a couple of minutes in each other’s company before the energy Dream still had came back.

Deciding there was nothing he could do but wait, he logged into Minecraft and decided to practice more speed running.

His times weren’t the best, but he blamed it on the slight shakiness of his hands that came every time he remembered what was going to happen- one whole week with just his best friends (hopefully longer, he wistfully thinks).

Dream will finally get to see Sapnap, to smile at his oldest friend, to hug him and thank him and give him a home (just like the one Sapnap gave him since they first met).

And George—

God, time could not have been slower in that moment.

* * *

Turns out, time _should_ have been slower.

“Fuck,” Dream muttered as he wrenched his car door open, quickly turning the engine and pulling out of his garage. “Fucking shit.”

While his foot stepped aggressively on the gas, he looked at the time on the console, and breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed he wasn’t _that_ late.

Getting to the front of the airport was a pain in the ass, and by the time he found an open spot to park on, he saw that George’s plane must be boarding off by now.

As soon as his feet landed on the ground, he broke into a brisk walk towards the entrance, weaving through the taxis and buses that were lined all through the street.

While he was walking through the slightly uneven sidewalk, he tripped.

Instinct made him put his hands out to break the fall, and he winces at the pain that erupts from his palms and legs. He shakes himself, cleans his knees from the dirt as best as he could, and curses himself for having decided to wear shorts. He looks around to see if anyone saw, and keeps walking quickly though more carefully now. 

There are a lot of people, and he has to mutter at least a hundred apologies before he can get to the front of the terminal. He is winded and breathing deeply when he sits on a chair, though his eyes immediately glue to the monitor above his head.

LANDED, the panel says boldly, and his heart falls to his stomach as nerves settle inside him.

George is going to be here soon, by his side. Dream will hear his laugh with his own ears, not through some headphones. He will talk and joke with him, push his shoulder gently after a witty response, maybe poke the dimples in his cheeks.

George is going to be here, right now, and there are a thousand things Dream needs to do, a million things he wants to do.

Three words he wants to say.

He starts to bite his lips, to pop his knuckles, to fiddle with his phone. He looks around, looks at the time, looks at the airplanes visible through the windows.

When people began to trail out of the terminal doors, he stood up quickly, turning his head side to side to catch a glimpse of the person he fell for.

Then, he sees George, looking lost and overwhelmed in the middle of the Sanford airport. 

He walks closer and only then notices the stickers all over George’s luggage, of Minecraft and their skins and everything that looks as though it belonged to an eight year old. Trying to ignore the nervous flutter in his stomach, he can’t help but laugh, and George turns around.

“Dream?”

It was almost as if they were suspended in time, both staring at one another face to face, with no computers or masks between them- with nothing left to hide.

Both of them are inevitably coming closer, and when George smiles at him, bright and beautiful, he feels like nothing could ever stand in between them. 

_(We can do this)._

“George!” Then there is nothing around him but _George George George,_ their arms intertwined, their bodies pressed together, and Dream smiles (something sweet and hopeful). The creases on his left knee throb and the cuts on his hand sting slightly.

 _Falling hurts_ , he thinks, looking at George’s flushed cheeks, wide grin, and eyes staring up at him with something he dares to call love. _But I don’t mind it if it’s for you._

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> what began as a challenge by my friend after we both read heat waves (a heavy inspiration for this story, thank you tbhyourelame for that masterpiece) turned into this mess. and thank you to my friend for getting me out of my writer's block. this is dedicated to you <3 i hope you liked it :))
> 
> thanks for reading everyone!


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